


Suspension

by whatabadchoice



Series: Tuesdays [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, hotel au, mention of overdose, past drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatabadchoice/pseuds/whatabadchoice
Summary: It’s Mr. Smith. He’s been down more than just Tuesdays these past two weeks and honestly, Castiel has never seen time pass quicker. He isn’t sure whether that should make him happy or incredibly guilty. This job has always been a little tedious, a little slow; enough for Castiel to think back on his actions, enough to be his repentance. These days, however, time flew. Mr. Smith would “swing by” after most of his late nights at the office, sometimes even coming down from the elevator.And now it’s time to pay the piper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I.... barely read over this. sorry if there are redundancies!  
> I'm back to writing every day so hopefully I'll be done this soon. probably 2-3 more and should be wrapped up. 
> 
> (some of you are worried about Castiel's intelligence at this point... hopefully this chapter kind of explains why he's distracted...) (also sorry, this is mostly mangst and background info) (aka hella boring)

MAY 13TH

“I’m sure you know why you’re here,” comes the detestable sound of Crowley’s voice. Castiel bites back a sigh. He can guess.

It’s Mr. Smith. He’s been down more than just Tuesdays these past two weeks and honestly, Castiel has never seen time pass quicker. He isn’t sure whether that should make him happy or incredibly guilty. This job has always been a little tedious, a little slow; enough for Castiel to think back on his actions, enough to be his repentance. These days, however, time flew. Mr. Smith would “swing by” after most of his late nights at the office, sometimes even coming down from the elevator. 

And now it’s time to pay the piper.

“I’m not sure, actually,” Castiel lies. Crowley smirks.

“I’ve been checking the cameras,” Crowley says, barely concealing a grin. 

Castiel refuses to respond. Mr. Smith has been courteous. He’s been present… a lot. But always courteous, always friendly. Besides, security cameras didn’t pick up sound (or _scent_ thank goodness). So Crowley had nothing.

Maybe.

“You haven’t worn your nametag in two nights,” Crowley finally says into the awkward silence. Castiel can’t help the way his chin drops. He tries his best to keep his eyes from rolling right outside their sockets because _is this man serious?_

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Crowley repeats, tone a little mocking. Castiel ignores that. There’s a reason Crowley is nitpicking, and Castiel won’t play this game. He has rent to pay, and more importantly, he has benefits from his ten year commitment to this terrible job-- he will not relinquish them for a petty pissing match with his boss. 

“As you know, rules are important here. Now, I’m sure you’re aware you have had a warning in the past,” Crowley continues. Castiel nods, jaw clenched. He hopes his freshly applied blockers are working well because the spike of aggression worsens.

“Therefore, unfortunately, a second warning does get you a wee bit of suspension.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise before he can stop himself. _Suspension_. For not wearing a _nametag_. Huh. He’d do well to take Crowley seriously from now on, it seems. He’s serious.

“But don’t worry, I know you were set to work tonight, so I will let you do your shift. As of Monday, however, you will have to fulfill a two day suspension before we can let you return to your regular schedule. All has been arranged, and we, as management, do hope you consider being more careful in the future,” Crowley adds, though Castiel sees his nostrils twitch with which must be a faint smell of anger coming off Castiel’s skin.

“Very well,” Castiel says, rising from his chair. “May I take a moment to make arrangements at home?” he asks politely. It’s Crowley’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“Of course, I’ll have Anna cover the first ten minutes or so, will that do?”

“Yes, thank you. That should suffice.”

Without another word, Castiel walks out of the small, dark office and past the reception area, where Anna gives him a concerned look. He shakes his head, waving her off, and continues out of the lobby into the night air.

Turning the corner so that the large windows of the hotel are no longer visible, Castiel stops abruptly and braces himself against his knees, bending over almost completely.

Okay.  
Three deep breaths.

Castiel counts to ten.  
He inhales, he exhales.

A suspension isn’t fired. It isn’t the end. He will still have money coming, insurance to cover the costs. This is just a warning. 

Bringing himself back upright, he takes a moment to stare at the building that directly faces the hotel. The neighbourhood is old, the apartments in the surrounding area are far more intricately built than the 70s era slab of concrete that Castiel works in, so Castiel keeps breathing as he counts the gargoyles at the top of the complex. 

He could get another job. He could work hard somewhere else and possibly get the same or similar benefits… eventually. Perhaps he could get a loan and use that in the meantime. 

Castiel sighed.

He needed this job. He needed those benefits. He needed the steady income and the lessened stress of knowing the job and the people. A change might be as good as a rest for some, but Castiel hadn’t known rest in years and he doubted any changes right now would help him in that department.

Rubbing his eyes, he straightened. 

Alright. He could do this. He could grit his teeth. He could be professional.

He stopped by his locker on the way back in to reapply his blockers. He was going to need them.

 

MAY 17TH

Two days.

Of course, Crowley had finagled the suspension to fall on a Tuesday and Wednesday, the least interesting or busy days of the week, so that Castiel’s presence wouldn’t be missed at the hotel. It was Castiel’s fault, anyway. Crowley had checked the cameras, he’d seen the way Mr. Smith leaned over the counter. He knew.

But it wasn’t enough. Castiel had been careful -- at least he could congratulate himself on that point. So Crowley had waited. 

Or at least, that’s what Castiel couldn’t help theorizing alone in his dinghy apartment. He’d waited until the first tiniest, measurable offense, and then pounced.

If you can’t promote them, fire them, right? Castiel growled vainly at the memory.

Castiel was home alone, with no one to hear the aggressive rumble in his throat, no one to notice the way his fists clenched. On a Tuesday night. In his tiny apartment with its tiny window and the non existent closet and…

It was times like these that Castiel wished he could let go his sense of duty and just…

But no. The job was necessary. The job was penitence. It was how he would make up for those years spent more concerned with the bottom line than with his youngest sibling. This way, he got to spend mornings at the center and still be available for Samandriel if there was an emergency. Nights were easiest, that’s what the nurses had told Castiel and he had taken that to heart. But today, Castiel had spent the entire day at the center and he wondered what they had really meant by “easy”.

The overdose had been over a decade ago. Though his “little” brother was now nearing thirty, his mental age remained that of an infant. He required full-time care -- a job Castiel had tried for a time to take on himself. But moving from power-hungry, rising star of Novak Industries to live-in caregiver had been too much of a shift. He had taken the first job that allowed mornings free and stuck to it to retain the benefits to support his brother.

Nothing helps, though, Castiel can’t help but think bitterly. No amount of savings or self-denial or self-inflicted so-called penitence would change the fact that he hadn’t been there. 

Well, technically, he’d been there. He’d been at that party -- a celebration of his most recent acquisition of Arc Enterprises, Novak Industries’ largest competitor at the time. So what? He had remembered thinking. He was young. He was powerful. He was an Alpha. The world was at his fingertips and if his little brother wanted to come along for the ride, who cared? It wasn’t Castiel’s job to look after him constantly, and besides, he was busy… _networking_. Castiel was a god among businessmen and he knew his name _meant_ something. At least, that’s what it had felt like.

His name hadn’t meant much to the first responders, who had taken twelve minutes to arrive as Castiel drunkenly attempted to perform CPR on his brother’s limp body. Or the party goers who had fed Sam the cocktail of oxy and suddenly disappeared at the sound of choking. Or the CEO when Castiel had needed time off to take care of a comatose little brother. Suddenly all the money and power in the world hadn’t meant anything at all and Castiel found himself drowning in medical bills.

The long months after the “incident”, as many uncomfortable business partners referred to it, were spent hopping from doctor to doctor, hoping to hear a different diagnosis. It nearly destroyed him. It had always been just Cas and Samandriel. Castiel had been ashamed to admit that he resented the burden of caring for him but then, Castiel was well and truly alone.

It wasn’t until the thirteenth doctor, a tall man with shaggy brown hair who looked as if he had just finished med school the week before had suggested a sleeping pill that Castiel had finally thought he heard it all. The doctor had insisted, however, that the pill had been known to rouse other “difficult” coma cases from their sleep and that at this point, what did he have to lose?

The next day, Castiel watched as Samandriel woke up, dazed, confused, and not nearly close to the man he had been before, but _awake_. Dr. Wesson had been gracious, accepting his thanks without pride or entitlement. He was the first person to really help Castiel and he was the reason he had decided to stay in the city. 

Rehabilitation was long and hard. Dr. Wesson had suggested the center where his fiancee, Ms. Moore, worked as a nurse and Castiel could tell immediately, from the way Nurse Moore spoke to Samandriel -- as an adult, not a drooling child -- that this was the right decision. And he hadn’t regretted it in ten years. With Dr. Wesson’s regular follow ups and Nurse Moore’s supervision, Castiel had finally felt somewhat capable of getting his own life back on track in order to support his brother.

He only usually has time to visit the centre for the morning hours, after which he attempts to sleep as much as possible before his shift. On his way home from an entire day at the centre today, however, Castiel stopped at the corner store to buy a bottle of whiskey. 

It sits half empty on his bed now as he tries to think of something, anything else.

The first person that pops to mind, of course, is the reason he is in this mess to begin with.

It is difficult to blame such green eyes, though.

His favourite interaction so far with Mr. Smith had been recent. The week before, Mr. Smith had wanted a wake up call and Castiel had teasingly asked him his room number.

“That’s confidential information,” Mr. Smith had replied in an aggravated tone of voice. Castiel had been so surprised he’d actually burst into laughter and Mr. Smith’s answering cackle was just adorable.

He was perfect.

Well... he talked too much. And about things Castiel could barely understand. A show called Game of Thrones often slipped into conversations with him and Castiel eventually had to admit he had never seen it. And then Mr. Smith had found out just how little television and movies Castiel watched- which had led to an entire list of “classics” being prescribed to him.

 

Plus he was obsessed with his car. He hadn’t even brought it with him on this prolonged business trip, but he whined constantly about it-- or _her_ as Mr. Smith inexplicably insisted an inanimate object could have a gender-- being left alone in the garage his uncle owned.

But then Mr. Smith would talk about a book he had read. The last one had been a convoluted sci-fi story with unpronounceable character names and places. The way his eyes lit up as he described the scenes and analyzed the literary devices… It almost made Castiel want to hand over his own mediocre writing just to hear what genius interpretation this man was capable of.

Glancing at the time on his phone, Castiel wonders what Mr. Smith is doing right now.

It’s one in the morning. Too late to call, even if he could.

Well, he _could_.

Before he can stop himself, Castiel keys in the numbers for a direct line to the hotel rooms. He only has a flash of rational thought that warns him this might be a bad idea before his thumb slips to the green call button and his logic is drowned in alcohol-riddled fantasies of Mr. Smith.


End file.
